


Something To Offer

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [135]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 12:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15930242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Ben wants to make sure Rey's clear on what she wants. That's not really a problem.





	Something To Offer

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: You don’t get to say I didn’t warn you. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, her teeth caught in her lip. It made her look impossibly young, impossibly fragile; not at all the person who’d made the first move, who'd invited him home, who’d caught his hands that night as they walked home from the movies and pulled him behind a streetlight and strung her fingers up and up through his hair.

“We don’t have to--I mean, you’re under no obligation to--”

She laughed, a startled bird of a sound, and opened her eyes, looked down to find his. “Do you always argue with people who want to have sex with you, Ben?”

His face ticked up towards red wine, a flush that singed the tips of his ears. “No, but that’s not what I’m doing. I’m trying to make sure that you’re, ah--that you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” She reached for his hand and uncurled from the bedclothes, from the scrabble of sheets the color of sky and drew it over her thigh, up and under the rucked splay of her skirt. “Do you need proof? Something empirical you feel more comfortable acting upon?”

She was teasing, he could feel that, but it still felt like a kindness, an acknowledgement of his nerves in a way that said: _I get it. It's ok._

So when he answered, he tried to make his tone a tease, too. “You have something to offer?”

She pulled at his hand a little harder and his fingertips found silk, the edge of a soft, scalloped stretch, and then he was petting at heat, a sweet kind of damp, and when he swept his thumb across it, freed now from her grasp, she shuddered, gave him a startled sort of gasp. “How’s that?” she asked. “Is that answer is enough?”

He stroked her again, tracing the outline of her lips, easing down towards where she was open, where she might let him in if and when he tugged her panties down and just the thought of her spread like that--the way she’d feel against his face, hot and soft and demanding--made him close his eyes, made him groan.

She scratched a hand through his hair and murmured: “That’s what I thought.”

With his free hand, he rucked her skirt up to her hips. She gave a low, encouraging hum and he was conscious of her watching him touch her, watching his fingers move over her, rough skin over peachy pale silk. She was still pulling his hair and she was lifting herself up to meet him, her ass rising up to catch the pads of his fingers; to get him, he thought, right where she wanted him.

She knew what she wanted; it was something he’d always liked about her. From the moment she took over the evening shift from Hux, the acerbic Brit who talked to Ben like he was an idiot but treated the customers with charm and aplomb, he’d appreciated her forthrightness, her total lack of fear in asking questions, in challenging him, in telling him how she thought things should be. He’d never worried, leaving the shop with her in charge; she was smart and thoughtful and not afraid to speak her mind and even his crankiest customers--the book club ladies, the professors, the stay-at home dads--grew to like her, made a point of telling Ben just how much.

When he’d put her on days, there’d been a little riot; the afternoon and evening crowd wanted to keep her all to themselves, and some of them were still mad. But others made a point of coming in earlier, of trekking down from the college or the play park at lunchtime to spend time looking at the new arrivals--and to spend time with Rey.

And somehow, he’d found himself doing the same, spending more time that he needed to in the front, on the floor, instead of messing around with his inventory in the back. When it was quiet, he’d carry his laptop to the armchair near the register to work on special orders and to talk with her, if she wanted; if not, he’d try to judge what was wrong by the CDs she played, as if the cheery voice of Ray Charles or the sad bow of strings or the dip and slide of Daft Punk were the Rosetta Stone to her moods, to the slump in her shoulders or the uncertain sadness in her eyes.

But most days, they talked, and one day, they’d kissed, her mouth warm and sweet against his in the stockroom, tasting of Early Grey and cream, and now, he was on his knees by her bed, his head pitched against the inside of her thigh, his eyes locked on the swell of her cunt beneath the turn of her panties, on the path his fingers were running down and up and around.

She was leaned back on her elbow and her face was tipped towards the ceiling, one hand still strung in his hair. There was a curl of rose at her throat that spread down her breasts, around her nipples that were still wet from his mouth, still curled up fat and tight. She’d panted while he licked her there, groaned when he’d given in and finally sucked, and rubbed herself against his thigh, insistent, her skirt inching up towards her hips.

He teased at her clit with his thumb, more urgent than before, harder, and she bucked, gave up a sharp, needy sound.

“Use your tongue,” she said. “Please, Ben, god. Right there. I need your tongue.”

He surged forward, helpless, and buried his face where his fingers had been; breathed in the smell of her, salty, and kissed her through the fabric, a thin, final skin between himself, he thought, and sanity; between need and his last, fading strands of self-control.

She yanked his hair, trying to get his mouth where she wanted it, and he shook his head-- _No_ \--and caught her hips in his hands, pinned her fast to the bed.

She made a noise, greedy and loud, and he felt her pulse against his lips, felt the hungry clutch of her cunt.

“Yes,” he said, his voice muffled by the promise of her flesh. “Rey, yes. Fuck.”

He found her clit with the tip of his tongue, dug for it through silk, and he knew he’d found it when she fell back flat on the bed, her chest heaving. She cupped her breasts as he licked at her, rutting against his face as she pinched at her nipples and let out these punched-out little sounds that went straight to his cock where it twitched anxiously in his jeans.

He reached in and rubbed at her opening as he lapped her, mindless, his face shaking with a low, unending growl. There was something filthy about licking her like this, through her panties; it made him feel like they were fooling around, like they were teenagers, like they were misbehaving while somebody’s mom and dad were out of town. Not that he’d ever done that in high school; he’d been too buttoned-up then, too focused, too intent on shit that it had taken him 20 years to see didn’t matter: how smart he was, where he went to school, how many letters he could stick after his name. This is how he’d should’ve felt back then, what he should’ve been doing, but if he had, would he have ended up here, at the feet of the most interesting woman he’d ever met, one who didn’t take his crap and argued with him and was two shakes from coming just from this, the heat of his mouth, the hint of his tongue on her flesh.

She had a hand over her face now and she was shaking, her whole, lovely body trembling for him, because of him, and he couldn’t wait any longer, didn’t have to; he got his nails under her waistband and in one, solid stroke, pulled them up, pulled them off, and then her legs were over his shoulder and he was nuzzling her pussy, reveling in the smell of her, the heat.

“Put your fingers in me,” she said, tattered. “Oh, god, Ben. Please. Don’t stop. I’m gonna come.”

Inside, she was scalding and so fucking soft that he fed her another finger just to feel her flutter around him, just to feel her tense up and clench. He kissed her clit, gave a short, eager suck, and she closed around him hard, her back arching, the air filled with her high, needy cry.

He was hard, jesus, was he, and he wanted to be inside her so badly he could barely see and the awful part, the best one, is that he knew she would let him in right now, just like this: bare, with his pants around his ankles, with no pretense about it, not an ounce of finesse. It was stupid and reckless and he could barely breathe, he wanted her so fucking much.

“Ben,” she said, the word faded, her thighs shaking. “Ben, _Ben_. Fuck me. I want--oh, fuck, Ben, goddamn it, _fuck_.”

A hum snuck up his spine and spiked in his smile, the shaking curve of his tongue. "Yes, baby," he murmured. "Oh, yes."


End file.
